The Legend of Mikal Ghoststep
by Beloved of Eireann
Summary: When a young ranger sets out from his secluded, nomadic camp in the marshes, he had no idea the size of the world that awaited him, or the bonds he would forge, Version 4.0, could be considered an original story. Rated for language and violence.


_**Right, so this is a fan fiction based loosely off a set of characters my friends and I play, but not any of our adventures. It can, however, be read as an original fantasy story. Mikal Ghoststep, the protagonist, is my character.**_

Chapter 1- The Halfling

Mikal Ghoststep drew the scimitar he wore on the scabbard on his hip. Lightning danced along its edge, and the young ranger held it loosely at his side.

"I'd just give the blade back if I were you," he told the little halfling he was threatening in a voice as soft as the wind in the rushes. He was barely audible, but his voice marked him as a man to cross at your peril. "Return with me, and the judgment of the band will be more lenient."

"The Marshwalker band is not known for its lenience," the halfing snapped. The sword he had stolen, the Marshwalker war-chief's vorpal claymore, was strapped across his back, almost comically large.

"No. But death will be swift." Mikal Ghoststep didn't mince words; there was no point. The halfling would die, whether by his sword or the executioner's axe.

The ranger stepped forward, and the halfling raised his crossbow. "Not another step!"

The Marshwalker's dark eyes flashed, and he whistled a high, carrying note. A muddy-brown streak raced low over the halfling's head, slashing at him and leaving shallow red cuts. The thief dropped his crossbow and raised his hands to his scalp, crying out in pain, and Mikal attacked.

He swung the scimitar, which bit into the halfling's shoulder with a flash of lightning and the smell of seared flesh. The ranger seized him by the throat.

"The blade."

The little man writhed in agony. "You don't know what's at stake-"

"Quiet, or you die." Mikal threw him over his shoulder like the corpse of a marsh deer and began carrying him, kicking and hollering, through the Marsh of the Fatal Fen.

O.O.O.O

Mikal walked silently into the camp of Regdar Blackblade, war-chief of the Marshwalkers, carrying the halfling. He had knocked him out with the pommel of his scimitar after his noise attracted a pack of marsh wolves.

"War-chief," he said, walking up the burly older man, "I have returned with your claymore, and the halfing thief."

"Well done, nephew!" Unlike Mikal, Regdar had a deep, booming voice, and was as lively and jovial as Mikal was silent and grim. "Very well done, indeed!"

"Thank you, uncle." In the meritocratic society of the Marshwalkers, the fact that Mikal and Regdar shared blood meant nothing- of infinitely more importance was Mikal's skill as a hunter.

"Come, take him to the Pit."

The ranger did as he was commanded, dumping the halfling into the deep hole that served as the Marshwalkers' prison, and then walked away.

O.O.O.O

"Mikal Ghoststep!"

Mikal looked up from his fletching, and saw the Shaman's apprentice, a girl named Jenn, standing before him.

"Yes?" he asked softly.

"War-chief Regdar Blackblade and the Shaman wish to speak with you by the Pit."

He nodded and rose, walking down to the Pit, where he saw Regdar and the ancient woman known simply as the Shaman, who had held the post for as long as Mikal could remember.

"You called me," he said. It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"Yes, Mikal Ghoststep," the Shaman said. Her voice wavered with age, but there was undeniable power behind it. "We wish to speak with you about the halfling you captured."

"Is he still in the Pit?"

"He is."

"Then what need have you of me?"

"The Shaman's spirit ally, the Great Marsh Boar, tells her that the halfling did not steal my blade for himself," Regdar said. "He was hired."

"And…?"

"And the one who hired him resides in the city of the Flatlanders. You are our most skilled hunter, Mikal Ghoststep," the Shaman said. "Go to the city and find the halfling's master, and return with his hands."

Mikal nodded. "As I am commanded, so shall I do."

"While in that city, nephew, go to the chieftain and remind him of our Oath of Alliance. If the Flatlanders have ordered this theft, it will mean war."

"I will, uncle."

"Very good."

"I will depart at first light." With that, Mikal turned on his heel and went back to his tent to continue his fletching.

O.O.O.O

As the sun filtered through the shadetrees of the Fatal Fen Marsh, Mikal Ghoststep set out from his camp. He was travelling light, with only his sword, bow, enchanted travelling cloak, and armor.

He whistled a three-note refrain as he walked, and a marsh hawk, the same beast that had aided him in capturing the halfling, landed on his shoulder. A faintly glowing shard of amethyst hung on a cord around its neck.

"Hello, Steelclaw, my friend." The hawk blinked in response, and Mikal fed it a scrap of raw meat from a pouch on his armor.

"Well, Steelclaw, we're headed to the Flatlands. D'you think we'll find the thief's master?"

They said in camp that the young hunter had nothing to say because he used up all his words talking to Steelclaw. As far as Mikal was concerned, it neither broke his leg nor picked his pocket- they could say what they liked.

Steelclaw gave him a look he like to think said, '_Of course we will. When have we ever failed a hunt_?'

"Never. You're right, of course, my friend."

Mikal continued on in silence, listening to the sound of the marsh.


End file.
